The Melancholy of Mechagirl

was like becoming

a girl with two skins.

IV.

This is a story,

and it is true of all stories

that the sound when they slam shut

is like a key turning.

I was sewing, hands two bloody half-paws—

it takes such a long time to

become a woman—

smears of needle-bitten skin,

and you scrutinizing the cross-stitching:

no, no, like this, my love, like mine—

when he came to call, when you

with hair sleek as linseed oil

and my eyes still so black,

still unable to imitate the blue you demanded,

danced with him in our kitchen,

fed him our yellow soups with sprigs of thyme.

He smiled at me, with pomade in that grin,

and walking canes, and silverware,

and spring gloves. I snapped at him,

for a simple fox may still understand her rival,

and know what is expected.

But the recoil! The shrieking of her

the shrinking into his great smooth arms,

the lifting of her blue skirts to keep them clear

of the stink of my fume!

A vixen chews out the throat of her enemies

like stripping bark from a birch;